Flood waters

It was clearing nicely, when the right wing tip struck the bank.
By Leland S. Jamieson
A stirring story of an adventure by the Kelly Field pilot who gave us “The Affair of the Juxacanna” and other memorable stories.
Illustrated by Paul Lehman
Slow rain for days, falling interminably from leaden skies that hovered just above the earth. A chill northeast wind, gusty at times, never changing in direction; a wind that brought more rain. The dreary patter of water on shingled roofs, falling now as a gusty shower, sounding like a handful of pebbles striking overhead; then settling into a slow descent maddening in its monotony. Gray dampness in the air; a sticky dampness that soaked through one’s clothing and into everything. Day after day, tedious in its incessancy, dribbling down in a steady, growing stream that seemed mechanical. Rain falling from a solid blanket of wet fog above, in which there were no broken patches, no blue sky, no promise of relief.
For a week rain fell almost unbrokenly, until every slight depression in the ground, every track of man or beast, held water that dully glistened. Roads became impassable; here and there a car was stuck, its rear wheels burrowed deep in mire that had no bottom. Teams of horses, their backs steaming from the moisture in their coats, struggled through the slimy, glutinous muck, tugging patiently at wagons piled high with the household goods of refugees. Gaunt-eyed men, their faces blackened from days of neglect, sloshed wearily along behind their teams, turning now and then to speak some word of encouragement or caution to their wives and children who clung to precarious positions among the water-whitened furniture on the wagons.
The rain continued unabated. Creeks and bayous, dry ordinarily, filled now to their banks, then overspread the flattened countryside with their regurgitations. Inch by inch the water crept up, snarling viciously at the underpiling of bridges, grinding sedulously at the approaches of culverts and the embankments of fills. One by one the bridges over streams and creeks gave way to the ugly swirlings of the water; one by one the avenues of escape were beaten down; men and women and children were trapped, some of them to be snatched, horror-stricken, by the muddy flood when the earth of roadways was eroded relentlessly away beneath their feet. Others, more fortunate, reached higher ground; but even they were hardly better situated, for they were cut off without sufficient food or clothing. Disease set in; death threatened hideously the survivors who existed now in wretched deprivation on the tops of hills or ridges. Helpless in themselves, they stolidly awaited help; and yet they knew that for many of their number it would not come in time.